


Hospital

by scapegrace74



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Humor, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:53:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26141410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scapegrace74/pseuds/scapegrace74
Summary: From a Fictober prompt for the word "hospital".I feel like I’ve been writing a lot of serious, heavy stuff for a while, so for today, a little funny fluffy fic.  A fic-chen, if you will.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 14
Kudos: 60





	Hospital

Mulder was acting odd. Odder.

He was jittery and restless. Restlesser.

Their latest escapade in the realms of the bizarre and extreme had cost Mulder a pair of Brooks Brothers suit pants and a six inch long strip of his calf. It had cost Blue Cross Blue Shield significantly more to sew him back up again. The pants were a lost cause. She initially thought his behaviour was malaise at being cooped up in the office all week while he recovered. Or maybe he really liked those pants.

Right now, he was staring vacantly ceilingward, his lower lip pinched between his teeth, eyebrows a banderole of malcontent. He shifted from one ass cheek to the other like a recumbent runway model.

“Mulder, what’s the matter? You keep squirming around, and you haven’t read one page of those briefing notes since I got back from lunch.”

“I don’t feel good, Scully.”

“What are your symptoms?”

“Everything’s too much. The world’s all fuzzy, but at the same time, the lights are too bright. And my leg’s sore.”

“Have you been taking the antibiotics the ER doctor prescribed for you? We have no way of knowing where that pitchfork had been before you speared yourself with it.”

“I didn’t spear myself! I keep telling you, it was a hobgoblin!” As he became more animated, Mulder’s skin took on a ruddy palour, and his eyes were wide and glassy. Now was not the time to argue about his history with self-injury and farm equipment.

“The antibiotics, Mulder?”

“Huh? Oh, you mean the blue pills that could choke Linda Lovelace? I stopped taking them on Tuesday. They made my burps taste like swamp gas.”

She stepped around the desk and tried to feel his forehead. After a few fretful dodges, she was able to discern that his temperature was elevated and his skin clammy.

“I think you’ve got an infection, Mulder. Stand up and let me take a look at your calf.”

Mulder’s hands were reaching for his belt buckle as he made to stand, so eager was he to drop trou and play doctor with Dr. Scully in his basement office (Fantasy 245, sub-version b). Were they not, he might have been able to catch himself as gravity and his systolic blood pressure conspired against his pursuit of verticality. As it was, he came caroming at Scully like 180 pounds of raw timber in free fall, and it was all she could do to soften the blow as they both hit the floor in a heap. Mulder was out cold, so this did not qualify as Fantasy 93.

Two hours later, he was one hospitalization closer to renewing his Platinum patient loyalty status at George Washington University Hospital, which was good news, because Scully really enjoyed the express check-in benefits. His white blood cell count was elevated and he had a temperature of 103 Fahrenheit, so he’d sacrificed another vein to the intravenous gods and was staring with interest at the polystyrene ceiling tiles when Scully returned to his private hospital room. Mulder was under the impression that his FBI benefits covered private rooms, when in fact the admitting staff at George Washington saw his name on the intake form and automatically upgraded him in self-defence.

“How’s the patient?”

“Trippy. What’s in this bolus – mescaline?”

“They’ve got you on a heavy dosage of Ciprofloxacin. It’s in the quinolone family of antibiotics, and mild hallucinations are a possible side …. Mulder, what? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Your eyes are exactly the colour of Victorian seaside postcards. I just noticed.”

“Ummm, thank you? I think?” She was uncomfortable receiving compliments from Mulder in general, and Mulder wearing an open-backed hospital gown in particular.

“They’re the lighthouse to my storm-tossed seas. Everybody else floats away from me. Only your eyes hold still, Scully.”

Time to redirect the conversation, such as it was.

“Mulder, do you need anything from the office? I’ll be heading back there before I go home tonight.”

“You’re leaving?” Pitiful, like a boot-afflicted hound.

“Well, eventually. We left the office in a bit of a hurry, and all my notes and files are still on my desk. You’ll be asleep, Mulder. You won’t miss me.”

“I always miss you. I missed you before we met.”

“Mulderrrrr…” Good god, what had gotten into him? Besides the pitchfork and the Cipro.

“I’m serious. You don’t believe me. It’s just like the hobgoblin. You never believe me when the scary, unearthly things are real, Scully.”

“I don’t want to fight with you, Mulder. You need to get some rest, and this is definitely not the sort of conversation we should be having when one of us is _non compos mentis_.”

“I’ll fight for you, Scully.”

“Mulder … seriously? That’s not even … there’s nobody for you to fight.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’ll fight *you* for you, Scully.”

Sighing, she admitted defeat. There really was no defence against a stubbornly delusional romantic. She lowered the bedrail with practiced ease, unholstered her weapon, slipped out of her shoes, and climbed in beside him. Mulder made a sound like an overjoyed puppy.

“This is just until you fall asleep. I still have things to get done today, Mulder.” If she acted stern, maybe he would believe she was doing this for him. In truth, she was really fulfilling Fantasy 408, sub-section h.


End file.
